


Rhyme or Reason

by filenotch



Series: The Museum Heist Series [1]
Category: Hellblazer, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice, ZELAZNY Roger - Works
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filenotch/pseuds/filenotch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From DC Comics' Hellblazer and Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles, John Constantine and the vampire Lestat come together for a museum heist at the instigation of an annoying Chaos magician. Rated R for drugs, mild sex, and weirdness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhyme or Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published sometime around 1994  
> 

****

Round 1

They are both named John, they are both blond, and they are both wearing trench coats. The taller one leans on the pole of a gas street lamp, running his hand through hair that is on the long end of its usual cycle between "badly cut" and "wants cutting". The shorter one lurks in a doorway not far away, his long braid tailing out under a broad-brimmed black leather hat and over a beige coat in much better repair than the other's. The one under the lamp pulls out a cigarette, lights it with unconscious but practiced flourish.

John Constantine is the taller man's name, and he is an occultist. The one in the hat has no other name, but when forced has surnamed himself Blonde, White, or when feeling dramatic, LeBlanc. He is an occultist, too, he claims, but he does not bind himself to the grimoires and ceremonial methods Constantine uses. He has said he is a Chaos magician, something Constantine considers to be either very stupid, or very scary.

Constantine is the tethered goat, trying to attract the attention of a vampire. He has a purpose, but he suspects John is here merely for kicks and to watch Constantine in action. Constantine knows the rumors, that he carrie the blood of a demon in his veins, and the heart of an archangel in his knapsack. These are rumors he sometimes confirms.

He muses on his companion, a man he's known scant days. He finds John both charming and obnoxious, a creature compressed under the weight of his own omnidirected scorn. Constantine, at least, has known love. Monsieur LeBlanc will only grudgingly admit to the occasional utility of altruistic behavior.

And so they wait. Constantine lights another cigarette from the stub of the last. The cobbled streets of Boston's Beacon Hill are quiet at this hour. And then it comes.

He is no fool, this vampire, to be caught by the bait staked out. Besides, he can sense that there is nothing he cares to feed on in the lanky body leaning invitingly under the lamp. The scent is unfamiliar, calls clearly that he is to be avoided. Besides, the vampire has learned not to take the obvious and moves toward the one who hides in shadows.

By the descriptions anyone has read -- the pale skin, the white-blond hair, the generous mouth -- it can only be Lestat. As Lestat turns, John's right hand moves from his pocket to his nose. He snorts quickly, a well-practiced gesture, first in one nostril then the other. A brief grimace passes over his face, and Constantine sees him look up to meet the gaze of the new arrival, the vampire clad in a trench coat as well. John cocks his head sideways, as if the wide brim of his hat is an opening door, to expose his neck.

Lestat draws back. He has met the odd willing victim before, but there is something more here. John meets his eyes, showing the empty vial in his right hand and saying, "Amphetamine and ketamine." His neck flexes further. "Care to try it?"

The vampire turns away in disgust. The one who smells wrong eyes him impassively from under a cloud of smoke that swirls strangely in the gaslight. Again he faces the small man, who is now standing straight. Lestat can hear that the heart rate has begun to accelerate, but from the drug, and not from fear. "I don't have to feed to kill you," he drawls in laconic threat, but they do not respond as expected. There is no jolt of fear. He somewhat disgruntled by the attitudes of the two men.

His mood is only made worse when the man in the black hat raises his shoulders slowly in an elaborate shrug, then drops them quickly and dismissively. "Go ahead."

Constantine covers a combination of amusement and annoyance with a deep pull on the tobacco. He decides that this other John will do the stupid thing just to see what will happen, and that is what makes him scary.

Lestat hesitates. He is just curious enough to find out what these two mortals want. For a moment, three blond men stand in tableau in the glow of the lamp.

*

Finally a voice breaks the silence

"So who's up for Chinese?" It is John who asks.

"What?" 

"Hey! Chinatown's the only place still teeming with life at this hour." He gives special emphasis to the phrase 'teeming with life', and then laughs at Lestat.

Lestat does not care to be laughed at, and turns away. He steps over to the figure under the lamp, and is pleased to note that he is himself the tallest of the three. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

From behind, John uses an announcer's voice to ask, "Those are the big questions, aren't they? Shadow or Vorlon?"

Constantine finally speaks, and his accent and choice of words betray English origins. "Don't be an arse." It is clear he is not speaking to the vampire. He flicks his cigarette into the cobbled road. "Name's Constantine. Yours?"

"Lestat, but I think you know that."

"Never be sure about such things." Constantine shrugs, and the vampire is unsure whether he's been given a comment or issued a command.

At this proximity Lestat can smell more clearly the components of Constantine's blood -- not disease or drug, but something stranger. The pack slung over his shoulder has a different, but similarly curious, odor. The vampire looks into the thoughts laid out before him. There is fear there, yes, but it is directed at the third man as well as at himself.

"Guys," comes an agitated whine from that quarter. "I want to eat before I don't care."

They ignore him, the two under the gaslight. Lestat lets his eyes bore into Constantine's, but his target does not flinch.

Constantine lifts an eyebrow. "You're good, but I've seen much worse."

Lestat, surprised, knows somehow that the statement is no brag. As if in confirmation, John begins to chant laughingly, "Asmodeus, Beelzebub -- "

"Bugger _off_ , John." Constantine says, but he is ignored.

"And Etrigan!" continues the small man, as if delighted. "'Etrigan's a rhyming demon now.'" He is quoting a scene that Constantine knows he couldn't have witnessed. "What was that bit? _I shed no tear for those that die unshriven... And what are men but chariots of wrath, by demons driven?_ "

Constantine has been looking to the sky during the recitation, and he drops his eyes back to the vampire. "If he's eating, he might shut up."

Lestat wonders what he's doing in a city he doesn't like, talking with tedious mortals he doesn't trust. His only answer is that he can smell something he's never encountered before. Constantine calls out past the elegant shoulder, "Chinese it is, you wanker. Lead the way."

The man in the hat sets off down the Hill with a swagger that is comical on so slight a frame. The other two reach Beacon Street a few steps behind the leader, who skips heedlessly across through the sparse traffic. As the more prudent Constantine waits for a break, Lestat breaths in the strange scent again, and asks him, "What's in the backpack?"

Constantine shrugs. "The usual: a Bible bound in human skin, an Enochian tablet, the heart of Gabriel, and a spare umbrella."

Lestat believes him.

When they cross over to the Boston Common, they find the small John staring blankly across the well-lit but empty skating pond. Constantine shakes his head, muttering, "Bloody ketamine," and takes the still body by the shoulders to turn it back onto the path. "Chinatown, remember?"

The hat bobs once, and they set off again. Constantine sighs out loud the thought shared by Lestat. "It's going to be a long night."

*

It is a short walk across the Common, and the man out front sets a rapid pace. They are moving under the electric lights that filter through the bare trees and arc in intervals over the path. At the corner of the green space, the intersection of Boylston and Tremont, they cross the broad street that borders the East side of the Common

A mosaic covers the wall of the building opposite. Its decorations include beavers, and the motto, "Follow Reason". A set of heavy and elaborate double doors open toward the intersection's corner rather than to either street. John bounds up the few steps and touches the doors with something like reverence before leaping back to the sidewalk. Lestat glances up to see the square and compass, confirming that this is a Masonic hall.

John leads them down a block, and a turn brings them to a street that makes Lestat's lip curl. In 10 minutes they have crossed from the determinedly charming Beacon Hill to the merely squalid Combat Zone.

The trio are eyed by small packs of hookers -- male, female, and indeterminate. The man out front occasionally tips his hat to one of the prostitutes or another. In the middle Constantine simply paces, shaking his head with a smile at offered drugs. The vampire brings up the rear, and is not approached. His steps are slowed somewhat by trying to avoid the occasional used condom on the sidewalk.

The black hat swings left onto a side street and into Chinatown proper, the border announced by the pagodas that decorate the streetlights and telephone booths. There are signs in many languages, including one which might be English. Constantine files for later retelling a notice advertising, "Chinese Academy of Martian Arts." The air smells of urine, of offal, and of cooking garlic.

As they pass one darkened storefront there is a sudden eruption of animal noises -- chickens, geese, ducks, and the rarely heard scream of frightened rabbits. Lestat stops to look at the sign over the door, and in large clear letters it reads "Eastern Live Poultry." The animals inside know he is here, and they know he is hungry.

Constantine has noticed the cacophony and stopped, but they do not linger. John has already ducked into a restaurant door. Moments later, Constantine holds the same door for Lestat, and the vampire tries to make his habitual sweeping entrance. There is no room for such displays. Instead, the three gather just inside a small, crowded room.

It is brightly lit, this place, and their fair heads are a contrast to the well dressed young Asians and dark Arabs, most of whom are talking on cell phones. The only other blond in the room also has eyes with epicanthic folds, her hair obviously the product of chemical processing.

Lestat smolders a look at the only table lingering over a check, and almost instantly they rise to leave. Constantine watches the process, amused, and can't resist leaning in to comment. "Nice trick."

Lestat looks at him scornfully. "You don't mean to tell me you have the heart of Archangel Gabriel in your pack and you have trouble getting a table at a restaurant?"

Constantine almost takes offense, but laughs softly. "Well, I didn't take it for that."

Lestat stands stiffly, appreciating that there is a joke here, but not liking the environment. It is too bright, inelegant, and the squawk of mobile phones annoys him.

They are shown to the table, and they arrange themselves with Constantine and Lestat on one side, John on the other. When the laminated menus are placed before them, Constantine observes, "This isn't Chinese. Where's the chicken cashew?"

"Sorry, sorry," John says, removing his hat. It has left a mark across his forehead. "'Sorry seems to be the hardest word.' Korean and Japanese. Shall I order for you?"

"No. You'll have me eating pigs' ears."

John's coat is shucked and left to fall over the back of the chair. Constantine does likewise. Lestat rises and removes his coat, carefully folding it onto the empty chair.

They are similarly dressed, but Lestat's open shirt and slacks are a sartorial array, easily costing ten times what Constantine plunked down for his clothing. John is wearing a shirt finely made and well cared-for, but slightly frayed with age. He is either older than he looks or a careful devotee of thrift stores. Constantine is sure it is the latter, but Lestat is equally convinced of the former.

A waitress arrives, and John orders for all of them, ignoring Constantine's protests. "Kalbi," he says, pointing at Constantine. "Nothing," he says, waving dismissively at Lestat. "For me," he begins, handing her a rapidly checked-off sushi list, "that, with extra wasabi and a big bowl of kimchi." John makes a gesture with his hands, indicating a large bowl. "Just kimchi, and," he pauses for emphasis, "Japanese tea. Hot Japanese tea."

She looks at him carefully, then walks away

"Kimchi?" Constantine asks. "How can you eat that stuff?"

For all that the small man's eyes do not waver, the body beneath is barely containing a need to sway. "Endorphins. I'm looking for a good pain buzz to take the edge off the speed."

Lestat looks at Constantine, and asks in a supercilious tone that he instantly regrets, "Is he really necessary?"

*

Constantine shrugs. "Hard to say." He reaches for his cigarettes but the small man stops him.

"Can't smoke in restaurants in Boston."

"Bloody hell."

A teapot and three small cups are set down, and John pours two with elaborate care. He hands one to Constantine, who notices that the steaming liquid is clear. A sniff brings the tang of alcohol vapor.

"This is --" he begins to exclaim loudly, but his words are stilled when his companion reaches to lay fingers over his mouth. They rest momentarily, then are removed as their owner softly supplies the missing word:

"Sake, I know. 'Cold tea' is beer. It's after hours. Illegal to sell alcohol."

Constantine lifts his cup, muttering, "Land of the bloody free, alright." He is glad of the drink, though, and a deeper draught wipes away the impression left by the unwelcome shushing fingers.

"Enough," says Lestat, with a hint of imperiousness. "I will sit here while you _eat, if_ you can keep my interest."

"First, a question," says John, pulling his braid over his shoulder and combing the loose end with his fingers. "What brought you to us?"

"A personal advertisement. Which one of you wrote it?"

"Both, or either, depending on which one," John answers, looking at Constantine. "Was it the one that said 'Chaoti seeks famous vampire for nefarious deeds and light housework. Meet in the hub of the universe where joy crosses the mountain. Quart of wax'?"

"Yes, that's the one. A trivial puzzle of time and place. It ran in the Miami Herald and the Times-Picayune for two weeks."

"Did you even see the other one?" Constantine asks with a note of annoyance.

"What other one?"

Constantine merely grumbles, and John gives him a superior smile. "Told ya' mine would work."

"Enough!" Lestat hisses. "Why did you even want my attention?"

It is Constantine who answers. "There are two Egyptian artifacts involved which might interest you. The names on them are Akasha and Enkil."

The vampire inhales slowly. These are the names of Those Who Must Be Kept, the first of the vampires. "I know who, what, and where those two are. Why would this interest me?"

"The artifacts are canopic jars."

Lestat's eyes widen. "But those are for the organs of --"

"The dead. Right-o." Constantine grins. "These appear to contain their hearts."

"That's not possible."

"Worth looking into, isn't it?"

Lestat sits back, one finger stroking his upper lip. His nostrils flare at the arrival of the kimchi, but he doesn't move for several minutes. John's practiced chopsticks have put a dent in the pungent cabbage before the Vampire speaks. "Where are they?"

Constantine can hear the danger in the voice, but he affects a schoolmaster's wagging finger. "Not without us, you don't"

"What do I need you for?"

"Well." Constantine's voice is edged by his desire for a cigarette. "We know exactly where they are, we know how they're guarded, and we know how to get them."

"What do you need me for?"

"We think there's another vampire, or something." Constantine's fingers tap the table.

While Lestat absorbs the comment, the other men's dinners arrive. Constantine is pleased to receive nothing stranger than a plate of marinated beef ribs. Across the table, John is less happy with the contents of his wooden tray. He looks pointedly at the waitress. "I said, 'Extra wasabi.'" She rolls her eyes and leaves.

Lestat begins in an affected tone of boredom, "This is all very intriguing, but -- "

"Nuh-uh," John says, his chopsticks holding a single egg of salmon roe in front of his eyes, which he regards carefully. "'Don't speak. I know what you're thinking.' You won't get them without us, and you can't make either one of us tell you." He pops the egg into his mouth with an expression of bliss, and picks another out of its seaweed wrapping.

"Alright," Lestat sighs. "What's the whole story?"

John eats the fish egg and picks up a third, holding it as if scrying into the small orange sphere. He speaks rapidly, and Lestat is surprised at his coherence. During the recitation the vampire's eyes are also drawn to the delicately held egg.

"Isabella Stewart Gardner was a famous wealthy eccentric, patron of artists, and collector of junk. Some of her junk is crap, and some is quite good -- Rembrandts, Titian's _Europa_ , and all that. She also collected pieces of architecture, and religious artifacts. Her buyers went all over the world."

He breathes, and then continues at the same swift pace, eyes unwavering from the egg. "Gardner built an Italian-style villa in the Fenway to house the collection, and her will stated that the house remain unchanged after her death. It is now a museum.

"It has remained unchanged except for the disappearance of several pieces in 1990 or so, including Rembrandt's only seascape. It had to have been an inside job. Since then, security has tightened incredibly, but it won't do them any good.

"You see, it _was_ an inside job, but no guards or administrators were involved," John concludes. "Mrs. Gardner herself took the paintings and the other pieces.

Lestat's eyes follow the egg into John's mouth, his focus only broken as the small orb is crushed between the front teeth. He recovers, and says, "I thought you said Mrs. Gardner was dead."

"I'm sure she is," Constantine answers around a mouthful, then swallows and grins. "Just as dead as you are."

*

"Where is this going?" Lestat is intrigued, finally and truly, rather than as a guard against boredom.

John is picking out eggs and eating them rapidly now. He cleans out one piece, leaving only the cup made of rice and wrapped seaweed, then picks up the untouched piece. He regards it carefully, eyes narrow, then his tongue deliberately scoops out all the eggs at once.

Lestat is both revolted and fascinated. The gesture, the expression, both remind him of a feeding vampire. When a golf-ball-sized serving of wasabi is set down, John's feral expression deepens. He halves the ball with his chopsticks, and places each piece in the corrals of seaweed that he has emptied of fish eggs.

Constantine has noticed the process, and puts a rib bone back on his plate. In between licking his fingers he warns, "I'd lean back. His head might explode."

Lestat snorts his distaste as the entire package of wasabi and rice disappears between John's lips. It's almost more than his mouth can hold, but he manages to chew and swallow the whole lot. His breathing is shallow, labored. When he finally looks up, there are tears streaming down his face.

He smiles happily and rasps, "Smooth!" His chopsticks reach for the other wasabi bomb, but Lestat plucks the utensils out of John's hands. He pouts at Lestat, but makes crab motions with thumb and forefinger. "'Fingers invented before chopstick.'" With that he pops the second morsel in his mouth, and repeats the expressions of pain.

Frustrated, Lestat clenches his fist, and the chopsticks break with a loud snap.

Constantine has draped himself awkwardly in his chair, and, though worrying a thumbnail, his air is one of ironic detachment. He always enjoys watching someone get the best of a snob. "Well, I doubt we'll get more sense out of him tonight. Can't stand that sensation that your sinuses are bigger than your head, myself." He fills his cup with sake from the teapot. "Where were we?"

Lestat is glad of the return to the subject, and turns away from John who is merely staring at the half-empty bowl of kimchi. "Mrs. Gardner," he reminds the occultist.

"Ah yes. So, are you interested?"

"Perhaps." He looks at Constantine, who looks like nothing much. He is handsome enough, but with no sense of poise or style. The vampire senses no special power from him, but there is a calm confidence, a brash arrogance which seems to say, 'Go ahead. I dare you.' Lestat asks him, "What's in it for you?"

"Very early manuscript of Dante's Divine Comedy. It's in the book collection."

"I assume it has more than sentimental value?"

"I'm not after it for the poetry, if that's what you're asking. It's not a good description of Hell or Heaven." Constantine's hand executes its accustomed reach toward the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, then stops. "No, this copy has been owned by some very interesting people. Word has it there are some rather useful notes in the flyleaves."

"Notes?" There is a hint of incredulity in Lestat's voice.

"Grimoire pieces, magical formulae, that sort of thing. It's the real reason she bought it. It was Sir John Dee's copy." At Lestat's blank look the occultist explains, "Dee was court astrologer to Queen Elizabeth the First."

"You're saying this Gardner woman was into magic? All that hocus pocus with black robes and pentagrams?"

"Never needed the robe, m'self, but yes."

Lestat is incredulous. "Vampires don't need that sort of trickery."

Constantine merely shrugs. "Maybe she wasn't always a vampire."

That observation shocks Lestat into a different train of thought. "When did she die?"

"Early 1900's, and she was seen in the daylight up until a few days before her official past-due stamp."

Lestat's mind races, trying to think who might have been in Boston at that time, who might have made a vampire out of an old woman. The thought fills him with a distaste bordering on loathing -- to be immortal in the body of the old? Magnus, Lestat's own maker, had had such a body, had despised it.

He puts the notion aside, returning to the other questions which surround this strange evening's encounter. With a gesture at the apparently catatonic John, he asks Constantine, "What does he want?"

"Nothing I haven't got plenty of -- a feather from an angel's wing."

"Gabriel's, I assume?"

"Well he couldn't keep them after he Fell, could he? I mean, who wants to try and fit a coat over that lot." Constantine grins, biting the thumbnail. "Took 'em off for him with a chainsaw."

Lestat looks at Constantine, and suspects that he is capable of anything. With some genuine amazement he asks the occultist, "Why do you do such things?"

The answer comes from across the table. "'He dances on the edge of the Abyss because he must'," John intones without moving. "'Because he is John Constantine, and because he is alive.'"

Constantine is annoyed. "Where do you get this stuff?"

Lestat ignores him, and poses a question to John. "And what about you, where do you come from?"

John's head snaps up from his reverie, and his eyes bore into Lestat's for a moment, then turn to Constantine with equal, mocking intensity. "You dance on the edge of the Abyss," he snarls, with no trace of impairment or drug-induced distraction. "The _edge_ of the Abyss," he repeats with emphasis. "For me the Abyss is ' _Home. **Sweet.** Home_ '."

*

Constantine's eyebrows rise slowly under John's scornful gaze. The careful neutrality in his voice conveys a biting sarcasm more than any overt tones, as he drawls, "That so, mate?"

Lestat watches, knowing that neither will back down. He toys with the idea of leaving the two magicians locked in this pose until closing time, but decides against it. The prize is too intriguing. He chooses a gesture out of bad cinema, reaching with flourish to snap his fingers in the space between their eyes.

The mutual stare breaks, but the antagonism remains. Lestat has no patience for such displays from anyone but himself. "Enough," he commands. The men's eyes obey and turn toward the vampire. He exerts his momentarily held control. "We will do this thing, and we will do it tonight."

John shakes his head in contradiction. "Tomorrow."

"Why then?"

John's smile is wicked, and Lestat can sense that Constantine is anticipating the vampire's reaction.

"That night," John says, "A famous law firm is hosting a party in the Gardner Museum. We three are hired as waiters."

Lestat inhales deeply, his chest broadening and back straightening. "Waiters?!" His small explosion is nevertheless loud enough to draw all eyes toward their table. John and Constantine catch each other's eyes and laugh, their animosity forgotten in their mutual amusement. More quietly the vampire asks, "Why can't I pose as a guest?"

Lestat's question only makes them laugh harder. Constantine is pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, trying to regain control, and snorts out, "Bloody aristocrats."

"You were right," says John to the occultist, leaning back to recover himself.

"Yep. That's a fiver you owe me."

"Got change for a ten?" John reaches for his wallet and removes a bill, handing it across the table. A one dollar bill is returned. "What's this? I thought it was a five dollar bet?"

"Five pounds, at one-eighty to the pound. We didn't specify currency."

"Jerk."

The humor at his expense only serves to further suffuse Lestat with anger. He reaches casually, laying a hand on the back of Constantine's neck. He allows himself a bit of a smile, such that an onlooker might think the gesture friendly. Constantine knows it for what it is, feels the pressure of a thumb on his carotid artery. "Tell me why I need you," Lestat commands through his teeth.

John answers. "'You don't know jack.'"

"Jack?" Lestat's voice turns the syllable into a verbal blow.

"Jack shit. About magic." Unaffected by Lestat's attack, John waves toward Constantine dismissively. "Let him go."

"No."

"Okay. Kill him where he sits. Kill me. Then try and get your great grandparent's mummified cardiac tissue." John reaches out suddenly and grabs Lestat by the nose. Startled, the vampire loosens his grip, and Constantine leans away. John pulls his hand off Lestat's face, holding it with the thumb between the knuckles of his first two fingers. "Stole your nose!" he says, and then laughs as his victim's fingers involuntarily touch his face. In a bad version of Peter Lorre's voice, John says, "'I like his nose. It's rubber. It's chewy.'"

It is almost more than Lestat's dignity can bear, but he regains his poise with effort. It is his only defense against the absurdity. "What does magic have to do with it?"

"Look, mate," Constantine answers, rubbing his neck. "If she was practicing Dark Arts" -- he says the phrase with irony -- "then those jars are warded. Hell, the whole place is a mess of standard security systems and magical traps."

"Why should I care?"

"If you don't think magic can affect you, you're wrong." John is speaking reasonably. "Someday you will know how wrong you are, but not this week. We're here to keep that from happening."

"Why should you care whether I get the jars?"

"My dear Lestat de Lioncourt," John addresses him, "we don't. We need you to deal with whatever sort of not-dead thing dear Isabella has become, and the canopic jars of Akasha and Enkil might make that worth your while. Constantine needs me because I'm a better magician than he is; he can do magic, but I can see it. My service is the price of my angel's feather, but I want something from the collection, too. Mr. Constantine is a better thief than either of us.

"Is all this perfectly clear?" John concludes, sitting back.

"Yes," Lestat sighs. "I'm in."

"Good. You're buying dinner, too." John pulls his coat over his shoulders, ignoring both Lestat's annoyance and Constantine's laugh. He reaches for his hat, settling it on his head, then stands and leaves a card from his pocket on the table in front of the vampire. An address is printed on it.

"Go there after sunset tomorrow and get your waiter's clothes. I've already told them you'll be later than us, but the party doesn't start until 8:00 anyway. Be there as soon as you can. Constantine, I'll see you at the museum at 4:30?" The occultist nods. John begins to lose his grip on himself, swaying slightly with blank eyes. "Good. Now I have to get out of here before my brain starts dripping out my ears."

 

**Round 2**

Lestat adjusts his bow tie in front of a small mirror in the washroom, grumbling. His hair is secured by a courtly ribbon, as is John's, he notices as the smaller man steps up beside him.

"C'mon Lestat," comes the cajoling voice. "Didn't you used to be an actor? It's just a role."

Lestat's jaw clenches around his answer. "Servitude is not my style."

"No, no, no, no, no," John says, waving away the vampire's objections. "I realize you don't do restaurants so much, but let me remind you that high-end waiters generally act like they're doing you a favor. Americans seem to love that. Act like their social superior." John interrupts his lecture, and grins up at Lestat. "Can you do a really thick French accent?"

"But of course," Lestat answers, not quite overdoing the nasal vowels.

"Good. Knock 'em dead, tiger." John leaves the vampire to finish preening and moves through the kitchen to find Constantine. As expected, he is outside the kitchen door, having a cigarette.

"How you doing?"

"I feel like an Italian gigolo," Constantine answers, indicating his slicked-back hair.

"Hey, you had to look the part." John smiles over at his co-conspirator. "I just got aristo-boy in there to channel Pepe LePew."

"Bloody hell," Constantine laughs, somewhat mollified. "You are one crazy bastard."

"Don't you wish."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." John turns back to the doorway. "C'mon, it's show time."

They collect Lestat and hand him a tray of stuffed mushrooms, following him from the kitchen to the main courtyard. It is not the first time they've seen it, but each of them is struck anew by the beauty of Isabella's villa. The kitchens are kitchens, but the courtyard is unique. Lestat, however, is drawn bodily to the central garden. It is stunning, arrayed with potted flowers and carpeted with living green. Ivy curtains the back wall, and ancient marble, including a Roman seat, a pillar, and a statue of Artemis, set off the array. Lestat stands, tray balanced, enraptured by the flowers, the greenery.

John moves to pull him toward the area where the guests will soon arrive, but the vampire resists. A garden, lush despite the bare trees outside, lit as if in daylight -- it stirs longings he did not know still existed. It is a beauty that night could never create.

"C'mon, Lestat. Don't forget the accent."

John's insistence pulls him back to the task. The garden will be here all night.

Slowly the lawyers arrive, the buttoned-down best of the Bar Association. Constantine finds it difficult to tell them apart, glad he has only to walk with trays of hors d'oeuvres. Lestat has the same task, but the occultist notes with annoyance in a brief aside to John that the vampire is charming the pants off the guests. John is behind the bar dispensing drinks with more courtesy than Constantine believed he could posses.

As the evening wears toward the end of the proscribed two hours, Constantine realizes that there is a change in demeanor that alcohol alone might not explain. There is less posturing the body language, and the overheard conversations have changed from office gossip and corporate doings to subjects more ... cosmic in scope.

A woman in a beige suit with the obligatory pearls is waxing deep into an adolescent philosophy question. "What if," she asks her dark-suited companion, "what if our whole universe is just a molecule in a much larger universe?"

 

"Maybe," the man answers seriously, "but I think the universes are all sort of side by side."

Constantine moves away, laughing to himself, and stops by the bar. "These people are out of their faces."

A grin dances across John's face. "I should hope so."

Realization creeps up Constantine's neck. "What are you doing?" he asks, fearing the answer.

"Just zizzing up the drinks." The small man looks out at the room.

"Zizzed? With what?"

John shrugs. "MDMA, hash oil, and just a smackerel of tincture of opium. They all may be a little less uptight for a bit."

"MDMA?"

"'Ecstasy' on the street."

"S'trewth!" Constantine shakes his head slowly.

"Not exactly God's truth." John's answering grin has a fierce edge. "But this crowd'll spend the rest of tonight looking for it. Want to make another bet?"

"What on?"

"Twenty US dollars says that when they close off the party in, say, fifteen minutes, they'll interrupt at least one sex act in progress."

Constantine surveys the conservatively dressed crowd. 'Zizzed' or not, he cannot imagine them having sex -- never 'fucking' -- in any way but lights-off-in-bed.

"You're on."

*

Constantine goes back to work, circles the edges of the crowd retrieving empty glasses, and meets up with Lestat engaged in the same servant's task. Lestat is fully in the role, softly singing in French and flirting with his eyes at both the men and the women. The two take their burdens to the kitchen, and Lestat leans in to Constantine. Voice still dressed in the accent, he says, "Ma derriere, she has not been so pinched in a century or three."

Constantine reacts with some surprise. "You let them get away with that?"

"It is their little tribute to my beauty, non?" The vampire sounds playful.

"Still," Constantine answers as he deposits the glasses on a rack, "I can't imagine that crowd being so bold."

Lestat merely smiles. "You don't know the rich, do you?" he asks in his normal voice

The Englishman stops short. He does, in fact, know the rich. He knows that wealth and power allow perversity an expression not available to the less privileged, but he has always associated this with titled nobility and not the professional classes. "Damn."

Lestat looks over with eyebrows arched in question.

"I think I'm going to lose a bet," is all the explanation he gets.

They return to the party and help to herd the guests politely towards the door. Coats are collected slowly, and the crowd diminishes as the psychoactive-charged lawyers spill out onto the sidewalk. John is cleaning up the bar area, and the other two return to the task of retrieving glassware and scattered cocktail picks.

At last all that remain appear to be the museum guards and the catering crew. Constantine stops by the bar, carrying a try of glasses. "Looks like I win."

"Maybe." John caps the last liquor bottle and puts it into a box behind him. "Let's take a walk."

Constantine puts the tray down on a bench, and follows John around the courtyard to the back corner. They step through an arch, and are now behind the back wall. Leaning against that wall, in perfect profile, is a tall patrician-looking man in a deep green suit. Kneeling before him is a woman, well preserved and perfectly coifed, engaged in what can only be described as an act of worship.

The man's trousers are open, held up by his spread legs. The woman is garbed in a pale pink suit, accented with a red scarf and red pumps. Her lips are also deeply rouged, and the two men watch fascinated as those lips slide kisses up the shaft before her, as her tongue escapes them to caress the head, as they open to engulf most of the member. The air about them is charged with something far more intense than a tawdry blow-job. Even passive, the man is worshipping the owner of the lips, as well as receiving her adoration.

Constantine backs silently through the archway, and John follows him, shaking his head with a bemused smile. "Babalon and the Beast wearing Brooks Brothers' suits. Who knew?" he says softly. He holds out his hand to Constantine. "Twenty."

The lanky Englishman sighs and pays up, saying, "Quite a performance in there."

"Quite," John agrees, looking up through his eyelashes. "Y'know, I'm never sure of the etiquette of such situations. I mean, they do need to leave, but would Miss Manners say to wait for orgasm before approaching them?"

Constantine looks at John's earnest expression, and rolls his eyes in disbelief.

"Hey, want to win your money back?" John asks.

"How?"

"What do you want to bet on whether she swallows or he comes on her face?" John's expression is still that of a schoolboy.

A groan issues from the archway before Constantine can answer. "Oops, too late." John says. Constantine stands with mild astonishment to see John lean into the archway with no air of stealth or care. The long-haired man comes back smiling. "We'd have both won, either way." At Constantine's quizzical brows he continues, "She was licking some of the come off her chin. Time to send them home."

The two walk quietly away from the arch, then turn around and walk noisily back. By the time they reach the opening a pair of fully dressed lawyers emerge, poised, every hair in place.

"Sir. Madame," John greets them. "It's time to leave."

They brush by the two waiters with a cool air. John continues through the arch, dragging Constantine with him. "'I might like you better if we slept together'," John quotes, turning toward his companion, "but I'll settle for a quick fuck."

"What!?"

"That little performance was quite affecting. What do you say to a little 'sodomy in dark corners'? You pitch; I'll catch."

"Ugh. No," replies Constantine, finding cold stone blocking his intent to back away. John advances on him, but is stopped by Constantine's stiff arm. "No. Bloody hell no." Disgusted pervades his voice. "I couldn't even get it up for the likes of you."

"It's good to work through our revulsions, John." The small man is trying to seduce his namesake, but laughingly. "There's power in it, and ultimate freedom."

John Constantine's resistance is complete. "Don't give me your twisted Tantra. Don't even touch me, you." Constantine steps sideways, then exits through the archway. Trying to refocus on the jobs at hand, both the cover and the real job, he goes in search of his tray of dirty glasses.

He needs the little Chaos shit, but he'll be glad when this is over.

**Round 3**

They were paid by the catering chief, and later he will swear he saw them leave. For now they have reassembled, each having disappeared from view in their own way. Lestat and Constantine have both discarded the bow ties and cummerbunds of their disguises. John is in his trench coat again, his braid re-woven and his black leather hat hanging down between his shoulder blades from a chin strap. He has a courier bag slung over his shoulder, and Constantine has regained his backpack and cleaned his hair of most of the pomade. The vampire is empty-handed.

They meet in the courtyard, stepping casually over the ropes that keep museum-goers on the surrounding walk. Few people are ever allowed to step on the paths that run between the greenery. The guards, Lestat has told them, are now oblivious, subject entirely to vampiric mesmerism. He does not tell them that he has never held so many at once.

Of Isabella, there is no sign. Lestat settles into the marble Roman chair, and wonders whether Marius ever found such things comfortable. Constantine lights a cigarette, and stands regarding Artemis in her niche in the ivy-covered back wall. Only John stays to the edges, to the shadows.

John tolerates his cohorts' fascination with the forbidden area for only a short moment. "C'mon," he beckons. "We'll go floor by floor. What I want is down here."

Constantine stubbs out his cigarette, leaving a black smudge and loose tobacco on the tiles. He joins John at the end of the garden, blowing his last exhalation of smoke in the small man's face as if the gesture is unintentional. Lestat rises from the seat and processes slowly toward them. "We begin," he says softly, as if he himself has initiated movement.

Yet it is John who leads them to a room off the main entrance, just a few feet away. It is cluttered, like most of the house beyond the court, and much of the bric-a-brac is in glass-topped or glass-fronted cases. He pushes the velvet cover off a narrow display table, and peers down into it. "That," he points.

Constantine leans to look. "Warded?"

"No, just alarmed, but not locked."

It takes only a few moments for Constantine to bypass the wiring and lift the lid. John reaches in, and quickly withdraws. At first Constantine thinks the man has taken nothing, but not so, he realizes. In the dim light he mistook the plaster cast of a hand for John's own extremity.

"What is that?" asks the Englishman as he follows John past Lestat, back into the better-lit entryway.

John holds his prize out for inspection. "A cast of Franz Liszt's hand." He compares his much smaller fingers against the molded shape. "With hands like that he could play the stuff he wrote."

Lestat snorts behind them. "Why would you want *that*?"

"To make a point," John replies offhandedly, tucking the hand into his shoulder bag. "Library next?"

"Lead on, MacDuff."

The trio circles halfway around the courtyard to a set of stairs. The guard at the foot is completely oblivious to their presence. John pauses and retrieves a black marker from his bag, and in a very few seconds the guard bears a cartoon resemblance to Groucho Marx.

Lestat expresses his annoyance by grabbing John's hanging braid and leading the small magician up the stairs. They walk briefly alongside the courtyard, and around the second floor balcony, Lestat holds the braid like a leash, which seems not to bother John. His captor's eyes move along the stairwell's railing. There's something oddly familiar about it.

Suddenly he stops, caught short by recognition. One section of the railing is actually made of the head and foot of an iron bedstead with elaborate metal flowers, identical to one he owned in Italy, decades, centuries before. To see it displayed as an architectural feature is at first disconcerting, then amusing.

John has been forced to stop next to him. He leans against Lestat's grip on his hair, but it is Constantine's low command -- "Let's go." -- that urges them on up the next flight of stairs.

Constantine leads them into a long gallery at the far side of the villa. He appears to know exactly where he is going, and stops about two-thirds of the way down to a book case, it's glass fronts covered in hanging cloth. He reaches out to move the covering velvet, then pauses when he hears John chuckle.

"Warded?"

The dry answer: "A bit." John reaches behind his head and tugs his hair free of Lestat's fingers, then moves to sit in front of the case. He concentrates, and in a few seconds, glowing sigils appear directly in front of him. They shine unnaturally gold on the faded fabric, glimmering out of view around the curved sides. "Recognize any of these? I managed to make them visible."

"Hmm." Constantine crouches down. "Standard stuff."

"Goetics." John agrees, rising. "That central figure is repeated all along here. You recognize it?"

"Seal of Vapula, the only demon purported to like regular books."

"Whoever cast these certainly liked that demon. There's fifteen of 'em along this wall." With a chuckle, John continues, "Isabella must not have a sense of humor. I cannot imagine doing that kind of 'I abjure thee' stuff fifteen times with a straight face."

"I can't imagine you doing anything with a straight face." After a moment, Constantine pulls a piece of chalk from his backpack and uses it to make a design on the dark wood floor. He steps into his design, adds a triangle between his circle and the bookcase, and draws a figure in the triangle, and in a low voice begins to intone.

His incantation is full of holy names, "I command thee", and schoolboy Latin. Lestat notices that John can barely contain laughter, and privately agrees that the scene is ridiculous. The small man covers his mouth with one hand as if to prevent an outburst. Constantine does not notice. He eventually falls silent and trades the chalk for a tool with a more mundane purpose: a glass cutter. He lifts the curtain, and sets his pack on it to hold it out of the way.

In a few seconds the lanky Englishman cuts a rectangle in the display's glass, then reaches in to withdraw an ancient-looking tome. A moment's flicking through the pages brings a grin to his face. "Spot on! I'd recognize Dee's writing anywhere." He looks up happily, then scowls at the expression on John's face. "What?"

The threatening laugher breaks behind a blurted, "I can't help it! That stuff just cracks me up."

"Well it was what was used to cast them," Constantine says defensively.

"Yes, I'm sure, but all that invoking the Immolated Lamb and Lake of Eternal Fire stuff is a bit much, don't you think?"

"Hmph. You're the one who always says to do whatever works. It worked."

The piercing frequency of the glass-cutter primed Lestat to be entirely impatient with his companions' bickering. "Now, the jars," he insists.

John pulls his face into a serious expression. "Of course," he says and moves quickly enough to keep the impromptu leash out of Lestat's hands. He stops, though, to draw Elvis-style sideburns on the next guard. It takes enough time that the vampire catches up.

This time Lestat grabs the hat hanging down John's back and uses its chin strap as a choke collar. He pulls John back against his chest. He only comes up to Lestat's chin. Lestat leans down to whisper in dangerous tones, "Enough," before releasing the pressure.

John does not pull away when he is freed. Instead he snuggles against the chest, and reaches up and behind to run his fingers through Lestat's hair, mussing the ponytail. "'Oh, Daddy, you're so masterful.'"

The vampire pushes him away with a grunt of disgust, and is further annoyed by a chuckle from behind. His jaw sets so tightly that were they mortal his teeth would break. He follows the irritating man into another room.

This chamber, too, is dimly lit, which is no impediment to Lestat. John, however, has conjured a flashlight and has halted, training the beam onto a spot some twelve feet up the wall. Lestat stands beside him, and looks to see which of the array of pictures he has chosen to illuminate.

Even on a wall dense with framed paintings this one image stands out. A plush woman carried off by a bull. "The Rape of Europa," John says, craning his neck to see it.

"What's that masterpiece doing all the way up there?" the vampire asks with scorn at such stupidity.

From behind them a dry voice whispers loudly, "It was the only place I had room."

"Hello, Mrs. Gardner." John does not turn, but Lestat does. A figure of twigs moves silently toward them.

*

"What are you doing here? What are you?" There is a moment of tension, but the whisper does not threaten, and Lestat realizes that it is all the voice the dry creature has left. He puts on his most courtly manner.

"Madame," the vampire bows, stepping near.

Constantine remains in deep shadow, watching. John turns his light from the wall to a spot near the villa's owner, but not directly on her. The gesture, Constantine realizes, is a courtesy both to himself and to Isabella. In the reflections of the light he can see furniture in the center of the room -- something French and frail, with gilt ropes tied across the arms to prevent the invasion of vulgar bottoms.

The figure he can see in the light is little more than a skeleton draped in an Edwardian-era frock. A glitter at the sides of the head speaks of earrings, but no ears are visible.

Lestat steps forward, as if sniffing the air around Mrs. Gardner. A small sensation of pity rises, and Lestat gives the feeling rein with an expression of concern and a hand that reaches up to caress her face. His elegant fingers, with their glassy nails, are a stark contrast to the pale leather stretched over her bones.

She permits the caress, even leans into it. From the shadows, Constantine can see Lestat's thumb gently lift the thin veil of lip. She has no fangs.

"You have never tasted blood, starveling, but I do not think blood is your food. What are you, my dear? What keeps you?"

She shapes the air through her mouth to make words. "I'm a very old, very lonely woman."

"Are you hungry? What do you eat?" Lestat has little courteous intent in his question, despite his tone. He is merely curious.

"Mumia," she breaths. "They say I must eat the sacred mumia, but the last ones were so hard to get, and there is so little left. I eke it out."

"Mumia?" Lestat asks, his question directed over his shoulder.

"Mummy flesh. Dried mummy flesh." John moves to stand beside him, and Isabella flinches a little at the light.

"Who are 'they'?" Lestat's hand is still on her cheek, in a near-fatherly gesture.

"They," she breaths, hesitates, then falters out, "they just are."

"John? What do you see?" Lestat is pleased to have found a use for his irritation.

John's announcer's voice says, "'The heartbreak of remoras.'"

"Speak sense!"

"Demons. They're all over her like those fish that stick onto sharks." John shakes his head in mock disbelief. "Never seen such a consortium at work."

Dropping his hand, the vampire says, "Well, this is something new."

"Not really. Think of Akasha's origins. Her's and Enkil's demons were internal. Isabella's are external, but the results are similar."

"What do you want?" asks the object of their discussion. "Why are you in my house?"

"We'll take only a few small things," John says, raising one withered hand to his lips. "You'll hardly notice. It's nothing so drastic as trading out your Rembrandt for dinner."

The spit from his kiss sinks into the parched skin as Isabella weakly grips John's hand. "I didn't want to do that."

"But what will you do next?" John asks gently, yet sardonically. "What will you give for your next cache of demon chow?"

"I do not want to part with anything," she sighs.

"You could part with your demons." The small man begins to gently kiss his way up the thin stick of her arm slowly, looking to see whether she will protest. She does not. "You will be no less beautiful when they're gone, and no less alive."

As John raises the wraith's arm, Constantine can see that only a pale membrane even connects the radius to the ulna. He is disgusted, watching John drop the arm and move to stand behind Isabella, his lips on the stalk of her neck.

Lestat is merely impatient. "Since you seem so taken by Mrs. Gardner, I'll just go get what I came for."

John looks up from his strange seduction. "In the room with the lace. East corner, near the ceiling. Wait," he calls as Lestat moves toward the door. From somewhere John produces a necklace -- a charm hanging on a leather cord glints in the flashlight as he throws it toward Lestat. "Put that on."

"What is this?" the vampire asks scornfully, looking at the intricate metal knot of the charm.

"Amulet," John answers distractedly. "It'll get you past the wards." He returns to nuzzling the few strands of hair left on Isabella scalp. "Put it on, Lestat."

He slips the thing over his head as he strides from the room. Constantine follows, unwilling to watch John make love to Mrs. Gardner's mortal remains. He hurries quietly, catching up to Lestat.

"Ugh," is the comment he uses to announce his presence.

"Quite. What is that all about?"

"Not the foggiest," Constantine sighs, "but at least she wasn't trying to kill us."

"A poor, confused creature." They reach the room with the lace. It is behind glass in a wall-sized frame, a small patch of clear white among religious artifacts and other clutter. "Ah, where has she put them?"

A swift movement sends the vampire up the wall to a shelf near the ceiling, too high to be intended for display. Two Egyptian jars are housed on it. They are in Lestat's hand in a moment, and he brings them down, held tenderly under each arm.

When he looks at them more closely, he recognizes some of the hieroglyphs from the Temple where Akasha and Enkil were kept. There is something about the containers that verifies what the magicians claimed -- some part of the Mother and the Father are in these canopic jars.

"Hold this," he says, handing Enkil's jar to Constantine. A few steps are followed by a crash of glass, and Lestat yanks a piece of lace out of the display. He kneels next to Constantine to wrap the jars in a piece of handwork at least as old as himself, then twists it into a carrier.

"So we're done here?" There is some relief in Constantine's voice, or perhaps only impatience.

"Not quite," Lestat answers with a grin that his companion does not like. "I haven't fed tonight."

"Wouldn't advise snacking on me, mate. There's shite in my veins you don't want to know about."

"Oh no," Lestat says dismissively. "I have other plans."

"The little wanker?" Only a raised eyebrow betrays any feeling from Constantine. "That should be interesting."

"Quite. Shall we go?" Lestat lifts his bundle to his shoulder.

"Sure. Let's see if he's done snogging Isabella."

When they reach the room they find John with his back is to them, hat on his head, light once again trained on Titian's bull and his pneumatic prize.

"Where's Mrs. Gardner?"

John turns and plays the beam over the antique chairs. The skeletal frame is seated in one of them, beneath the gilt rope tied across the arms. There is a strange dignity to her. Upon closer inspection, Constantine can see that the earrings are glued to the skin over the skull. A last vanity.

"She dead?"

"She's been dead, but now she's inanimate. I've got her demons in here." John holds up a black sphere, polished enough to glint, then returns it to his coat pocket. "Shall we?"

"I shall," Lestat purrs. In a movement Constantine cannot follow, he knocks John's hat across the room and backs him against the wall. The frames of a few low-hung paintings crack in protest to the weight. The flashlight spins on the floor, and Constantine reaches to grab it. He is torn between wanting to watch and wanting to run. He's seen worse, but it doesn't mean he enjoys it.

The victim struggles, as they all do, but Lestat's hand on his jaw prevents him from crying out. The vampire's thigh presses between John's legs. There is the growing pressure of an erection -- not an uncommon response in Lestat's experience.

He looks at his victim's eyes, because he cannot feel his mind. Above his capturing hand there is an expression of fear and ... amusement. No matter. The neck below is warm, hot even. Lestat opens his mouth and dips down to drink, anticipating not only blood, but revenge for a dozen indignities.

*

A slice through the skin brings heat to the vampire's mouth.

The heat brings pain.

Flame spouts from the wound in John's neck, first in a few sparks, but then in an explosion of fire that knocks Lestat back several feet. He lands sprawling, his hand rising to his seared mouth. The pain astonishes him.

"'Eye to eye and head to head. This shall end when one is dead.'" John advances on the pile of gasping vampire, hand clamped over his neck to staunch the wound, smoke trickling from between the fingers. The words are John's, but the voice is grated metal.

Constantine recovers from the near-blinding flare of light, and notices simultaneously two things that nearly alarm him. First, the trench-coated figure now moving toward Lestat is broad, squat, and deep green. Second, the guards have been loosed from vampiric thrall, and are on their way.

He calculates for a moment. If he can hide himself for the short term, he'll be able to blend in with the police, who will surely be called. It'll take a bit of glamour magic, but that is Constantine's forte. He can get through US Customs without a passport.

He glances back to the adversaries in the middle of the room in time to see the thing that was John pull Lestat's hand away from his burned mouth. His hair and eyebrows are singed, and his mouth black and blistered. The thing that was John smiles with a too-wide row of pointed teeth, and forces a taloned hand between Lestat's teeth. With a jerk like a blow played backwards, it rakes the back of its hand across a fang, opening up another flaming wound, burning the vampire again.

Lestat's cry is a strangled note of surprise and fury. Fire is his only weakness.

Constantine tries to leave, but he is interrupted by the metal voice. "C'mon. I'm done with him. I'll get us out of here." The thing stands up, walks away from the haze of smoke and charred flesh with a wide, rolling gate. The strained trench coat flaps behind it, but Constantine sees only the yellow eyes, lit from within with the fire that is its blood.

A strong, taloned hand grabs him by the arm and propels him out of the room toward the balcony. Voices shout, but in a swift movement the thing grabs Constantine around the waist and vaults through an arch to the courtyard garden two floors below.

They land with the "oof" of the wind knocked out of Constantine's chest. The magician's feet never touch the ground, though. He is bodily carried toward the exit, feeling the battered as creature knocks guards out of the way. In the midst of the confusion he compares himself to a rugby ball.

The analogy stretches when the thing bursts out of the door of the villa and throws Constantine over the eight-foot fence. He tucks and rolls, but the landing on the concrete is bruising. Before he can regain his feet he is lifted again.

From his position beneath the monster's arm, through the haze of pain, it is hard for Constantine to tell what is happening. There are shouts behind them, then the jolts of being run with, and then the sound of splashing and the annoyance of droplets of water and mud in his face. If that was the Fenway, he wonders, these must be the fens. Odd to find a swamp in the middle of the city.

Eventually they stop and Constantine is set down in a patch of dry grass. He can hear traffic behind them, muffled slightly by trees. The thing sits heavily next to him and rasps, "You okay?"

"Oh sure," Constantine answers almost nonchalantly, pulling out a corner of his shirt to wipe his face. Now that his eyes are clear of mud, Constantine leans back on his hands to regard the form seated next to him. The coat is stretched tight over a broader frame than it was made for. Above the stressed fabric yellow eyes glow in a lion-shaped head covered with deep green scales, the gold mane starting high on the head and pulled back, still, into a braid. It is some kind of demon, he guesses.

Before he can ask, it rises and gestures toward the road behind them. "Across the street is a restaurant. Pink neon sign. Meet me there for lunch at noon tomorrow."

Constantine also rises, beating loose grass from his hands, and chances, "What if I don't show up?"

"'I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.'" A trace of John's familiar sardonicism emerges in the creaking voice.

Even as a joke, the threat is too much. "Sod you!"

The thing is swift and irresistible. In a surprising moment, Constantine is pinned to a tree, and one taloned claw is prying open his mouth. The other claw appears in his field of view, holding the black orb. Constantine is sure the creature intends to shove the demon-laden crystal down his throat, but it hesitates, seems to decide that the threat alone is enough. In answer it says, "I never offer twice."

Constantine feels himself being dropped, and catches his breath, catches the reference. When he looks to find the thing, he sees it kneeling in front of a rock. It has produced a small bottle, and is dabbing liquid onto the stone's surface. Constantine recognizes the vial -- John's mixture for 'zizzing' the lawyer's drinks.

The thing recaps the bottle and holds up the black orb. It speaks casually to the sphere. "I have given you the scent. If you can find them, they are yours."

With the force of both demon arms, the crystal is smashed against the rock. Sparks of flame escape the small wounds made by the shards, but the cuts close quickly.

Constantine can feel a small movement around him, and he looks, but can see nothing. He supposes the demons are gone in search of the lawyers, and the thought amuses him. When he glances back at the rock, there are only dull pieces of broken glass. The thing is gone, but he can hear it splashing in the fen.

"Where are you going?"

"I forgot my hat!"

*

The city rolled into Spring overnight, the gray now dotted with yellows and early green. The noon sun is bright.

Constantine takes one of the two sidewalk tables outside the restaurant with the pink neon and the Spanish name. It is not quite warm enough to shed his trench coat, but he hopes he'll be allowed to smoke out here.

Only after the waiter sets down his menu does Constantine notice that the man is missing a hand.

"Can I get you coffee? Cafe con leche? Champagne cocktail?"

"Tea?" Constantine asks hopefully.

"Sure."

John Constantine stares down the street toward the fen, waiting for his namesake and reflecting on the evening. The prize was worth it, and by his own standards he paid very little for a copy of Dante once owned by Sir John Dee. But something about the entire set-up bothers him, something more than the little wanker turning into a demon.

The one-handed waiter brings a pot of hot water and a selection of teas. Instead of disappearing back inside, he steps away from Constantine's table with a smile at someone coming from behind.

"John, darling!"

"Hola, gorgeous."

"Where have you been?" The tone is indulgent admonishment.

Constantine looks up to see the waiter and the man in the leather hat kiss European style, but with true affection, at least from the waiter. They are nearly the same height, fair and dark contrasting. John is holding the hand and the wrist-stump unselfconsciously as he smiles and says, "I've been out of town, and I'm off again tonight."

"Well, come in and sit at the bar. Mamma's in the kitchen, and she'll want to see you."

"I'll stop in and say hello, but I'm meeting this lunk." Constantine feels John's hand on his shoulder, then glances away as the waiter's -- owner's? -- eyes fall on him with new appraisal.

The response is a stage-whisper. "He's not your usual type."

"Business," John corrects.

"Oh, well in that case ... Shall I bring you your usual?"

"Yes, thanks, and for him, too." John takes the seat opposite Constantine. "And ask Mammacita when she's going to give me the recipe for her peccadillo." He pronounces the word Spanish-style, with the Y-sound to the double L's. Constantine is relieved to hear it said aloud, for it had confused him when he noticed it on the menu. He's still sure John would be capable of picking a restaurant that could serve up the English meaning of the word.

"I've got the obvious," John continues. "Meat, raisins, onions and green olive, but I'm stuck on the spices beyond cumin and lime."

"Oooh, you figured out the lime. She'll be pleased, but you know she'll never tell you." The dark man runs his hand down John's braid, then tugs on it playfully. "She thinks if you could make it yourself, you won't come back to us.

"Don't be silly," John gently dismisses him, takes off his hat, then turns his attention to Constantine. "You'll love the food."

"Yes, I'm sure. Never had Cuban." Constantine lights a cigarette before leaning back with his arm over the chair. "So what do you think happened to Lestat?"

"The vampire will go to Earth." John's voice is mock-seriousness, and then he grins. "This is one episode that won't make it into his books."

As John answers, Constantine examines him more closely. The seams of his trench coat show the signs of having been strained. "I thought at first you were one of those idiotic Illuminates of Thanateros, but you're not, are you?"

The dry answer: "No."

Constantine throws John's habit of quoting back at him, trying his best John Wayne. "'You're not from around here, are ya', pardner?'"

John startles and then laughs at the bad imitation. "No." After a moment of locked gazes he changes the subject with studied casualness. "Seen the papers?" He produces two rolled newspapers from his bag. "We made the front page of both the Globe and the Herald."

Constantine picks up the tabloid-cut Herald. The headline reads, "Gruesome in the Gardner!" A quick glance through the front page tells him that the story is centered on the corpse John left in the Titian room. There is no mention of the vampire or of their own precipitous exit.

He trades the tabloid for the Globe, and reads with amusement the opening lines of their lead story. "Last night the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum was visited by a clever thief, a petty vandal, and a gruesome joke." He grins at the confusion their visit must have caused and reads on to see how the paper describes the scene.

The food arrives quickly, and across the table John eats happily. Constantine reads between bites of scrambled eggs and a meat dish that must be the peccadillo. He likes it.

Sentences jump out from the article. "The careful theft of the cast of a pianist's hand and a valuable book is a contrast to the vandalized lace display and broken frames of paintings. Most bizarre is the presence of a human copse." "While the corpse was dressed in a gown similar to the one depicted in Sargent's famous portrait of Mrs. Gardner, officials doubt the corpse is hers." "The guards claim not to remember anything before the explosion, and a drugged gas is suspected." "Reports that some of the guards had drawings on their faces are unconfirmed."

Constantine isn't surprised at most of the omissions. Even a wounded Lestat would not let himself be discovered. Still, it bothers him that there is no mention of the missing canopic jars.

"So how do you like it?" John asks, looking at Constantine over a forkful of meat.

"It's good." The Englishman picks up a tall glass of juice for a first sip, and is surprised, then pleased, to find champagne and orange juice mixed. He takes a second, more welcome drink, then concentrates on his breakfast for a few minutes. John appears content to eat in silence.

When they have both finished, Constantine broaches his question. "They didn't miss Lestat's jars. Do you think he left them?"

"Oh, I'm sure he didn't." John smiles a smile that reminds Constantine of the pointed teeth he saw the night before. "Besides, the jars weren't part of Isabella's original inventory. I put them there a few weeks ago."

"What?" Constantine is surprised, then amused. "Did you make them? He'll kill you when he learns they're fake."

The response is cryptic. "Oh no, they're real, just from a Shadow where Akasha and Enkil lived and died like normal Egyptian royalty instead of turning into vampires and starting that whole mess."

Constantine takes a moment to absorb this statement, and the implications begin to array themselves before him. "The Dante?"

"That was always there," is John's breezy answer.

"We didn't need Lestat, did we?"

"He did make this easier with the guards." John smiles again. "And more interesting in general. He was quite the foil."

"What would you have done if he hadn't showed that night?"

John's grin widens, and Constantine notes a brief flare of yellow fire behind his eyes. "I'd have probably killed you, or gotten you killed somehow."

"What!?"

"Well, three dukes of Hell have claim on your soul, right? You sold your soul to each of them separately, and they each have a valid contract. The judges might have been impressed by the drama of a war waged over that dubious morsel."

"Judges?" Constantine is controlled, but confused and angry. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

John sits back, momentarily sober. "You owe me an angel's feather. Pay up."

"Then you'll tell me what the bleeding fuck this has all been about?"

"Sure."

Constantine opens his knapsack and produces a single, long feather. It is luminous, its white a true blend of all colors. A full wing of such feathers would be blinding.

John takes it, sets it aside, then reaches into his shoulder bag. He fishes out a roll of something like sheepskin, but the color is wrong. When he unrolls it, Constantine can see tracings in a strange script, arranged in a column like a list. Some of the lines are crossed through, some circled. A few are unmarked.

John places the skin on the table and picks up the feather. Before Constantine can react, he grabs the Englishman's hand and jabs the pinion into his palm.

"S'trewth!" Constantine's attempt to pull away is futile. This small John has all the strength of last night's demon form.

Blood gathers at the wound, and after a few seconds John dips the end of the feather into it, like a quill into an inkwell. When he lets go, Constantine puts his hand to his mouth to salve the wound, watching as John uses his blood to check off an item on the list.

"You sodding little wanker." Constantine says slowly. He thinks he understands. At first indigence rules him, but then he begins to chuckle, then to laugh hard. "It's a scavenger hunt."

"Uh huh," John confirms, blowing through an answering smile to dry his makeshift ink.

It is clear to Constantine that John is laughing at him, as much as with him. He keeps his brash front, and says, "You could have just asked me for the thing. I've got hundreds."

John rolls up the scroll around the feather, and tucks the package away before answering. He faces Constantine squarely and says, "We get points for style."

**Author's Note:**

> John misquotes comic writer Alan Moore, quotes Elton John, No Doubt, Neil Gaiman (I think), the Firesign Theater, Romeo Void, a review of the movie Reservoir Dogs, Rudyard Kipling, the novel "Illuminatus!", and The Far Side, among other things. He can only have come from Roger Zelazny's Courts of Chaos.
> 
> Both restaurants are now, sadly closed. The correct spelling of the dish is picadillo, but I couldn't resist.
> 
> You no longer can enter the Gardner Museum through the front door. It's still worth visiting.


End file.
